


not quite twice

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (or my attempt at it), F/M, Fluff, PWP, idk if this was meant to go somewhere but i'm too sick to think about it rn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 05:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sansa slips the question: “Why couldn’t you be younger?”





	not quite twice

**Author's Note:**

> [Got sick lads :/   
> So have something unedited and hopefully coherent. Actual plot things when I can think again]

“Why couldn’t you be younger?”

Softer than the breeze brushing the curtains against the wall, or the fine silk they lay upon, or the fingers that lazed across her bare skin. Her words had been more thought than voice. So soft, and yet the body beneath her stilled breathing for a second. She’d been heard, proven by the curious, “Why?”

Sansa was glad her face was buried in the crook of his neck. Her hand traced circles over his heart, feeling each  _ thump _ , echoing up her finger, up her arm, and all the way down to her own heart. Even when they weren’t touching like this, she could swear she felt Petyr’s heart beating to the same tune as hers. They matched, in more ways than she could have imagined. “I- We-” On and on her finger twirled over his heart. “It would be easier,  _ this _ would be easier, if we were the same age.”

Fingers probed down the side of her face, catching Sansa’s chin and pulling her up to face him. Petyr wasn’t mad (that was good), but there was a spark of interest in his eyes, despite the edge of darkness creeping upon a now-familiar grey-green. He lifted he face enough to kiss the top of her forehead. “It wouldn’t work, sweetling.”

Now it was her turn for the curious, “Why?”

His thumb brushed over her bottom lip once, twice. Sansa knew what he wanted and opened her mouth. She could taste traces of herself on his thumb. Petyr gently explored her mouth with motions not unlike the ones he used lower on her, not ten minutes ago. “Because, Sansa, I’d wager half the reason you like  _ this _ -” punctuated by tugging on her lower lip before plunging his thumb back in, “-is because I’m much older than you.”

Sansa didn’t reply, choosing instead to close her lips around his thumb. Hopefully, Petyr would assume she was warming under the impression of another fuck, rather than warming at having her secrets read to her to her face.

But of course he knew. He always knew. Petyr knew everything about her: all of the things she couldn’t say aloud; all of the ways her body ached ( _ for him _ ). It was terrifying, being exposed so intimately in her mind and body. By someone who should be more a  _ father _ to her than a lover. But it was comforting, too. Knowing that deep down they were too similar to not be more than pseudo-family. 

Petyr - knowing she was  _ embarrassed _ and not just turned on - chuckled. “To be fair, sweetling, I’m not  _ quite _ twice your age. Though I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.”

Thankfully there was a finger in her mouth that Sansa couldn’t reply. She pushed her mouth against his hand, taking in his thumb as much as she could. Petyr didn’t blink once. 

Slowly, Sansa removed her mouth from around his thumb. This wouldn’t have been the first time she used his fingers as substitute for his cock, nor would it be the last. She brought his hand down to her breast, glad that Petyr didn’t need the coaxing to play with her nipple. “It’s hard to say,” Sansa finally replied. “Your hair is too gray for someone less than twice my age…”

He gave her nipple a squeeze. Sansa bit back her smile. 

Petyr snaked his fingers between their chests, not wanting to leave her other breast unattended. “I suppose it’s good, then, that you like your men  _ older _ . Lucky me you find gray hair more attractive than someone your age should.”

He wasn’t wrong. Sansa rather fancied the actors that could have been her father, had fortune lined up her life differently. Boys her age were cute, and they had a certain charm that even someone  _ as old _ as Petyr couldn’t claim. But they were  _ boys _ . They were...well, it was hard to describe. They were  _ boys _ , they were  _ young _ and  _ inexperienced _ and... Just not what her body wanted. Evidenced by the fact that when she masturbated (prior to Petyr, of whom felt it was duty to share masturbation if not be the one to do it for her. How gentlemanly) to illicit pictures they were of men much older and far less benevolent than the knights in shining armor she swooned after as a teen. They never had a face, the men she got off to. The illusory  _ older man _ of her fantasies.

Until she met Petyr.

“Is that why you won’t color it back?” she asked. Sansa maneuvered herself on top of him, one leg on either side. Not necessarily in an effort to shut him up - he was charming (in his own Petyr way) when they teased each other like this. “Because you think  _ I _ find it attractive?”

Petyr dragged his other hand down the length of her body, resting on her ass. His smirk remained as he continued: “Oh, sweetling, I don’t claim to  _ think _ anything when it comes to you…” His other hand moved from breast to ass, and in one harsh tug Sansa found herself clutching to the headboard to keep from colliding with it. Her body, meanwhile, was positioned above Petyr’s head.

His tongue lapped down the length of her opening before she could say anything back. Words replaced with a sigh. Sansa rolled her hips as Petyr continued to shower her cunt with the affection he was expert at. 

“It seems to me,” he said, reluctantly pushing her away. Sansa spied him between her thighs, his eyes black as pitch and staring up at her. “That your body agrees with me.”

Sansa bit her lip. Part of her wanted to wipe that ridiculous smirk off of his face by planting herself firmly on his mouth. But part of her loved the word teasing as much as she loved the way Petyr could tease her for hours doing nothing more than light touches. He was a devil in disguise as a not-quite middle-aged businessman. “How so?”

Petyr’s fingers, meanwhile, kneaded themselves in the flesh of her ass. One finger trailed close to her cunt, never making contact. “That you find me - and all of my gray hair - attractive.”

Sansa opened her mouth, hoping a clever retort would be found in the time between. Instead she heard herself sigh, feeling that wandering finger trace one edge of her cunt up to her clit. It didn’t stay long, trailing down her cunt again before taking up position on her ass. 

“You were saying?”

She opened her eyes (not realizing she closed them) to find that same ridiculous look on Petyr’s face. Like he knew he had won, and all efforts to prove otherwise would be met (in this case) with distracting touches. Sansa supposed it wasn’t the worst way to end the argument, though she had a few more japes to throw at him.

Next time, she decided.

“What about me?” 

Petyr nipped at the inside of her thigh. “What about you?” 

Slowly and carefully, Sansa pushed herself off the headboard. She shifted her legs down the mattress until her thighs straddled his. She could see all of him, and he her. Her finger traced a line down his chest, running over his heart, and lower until she felt his muscles twitch in anticipation. Sansa swept her hair out of her face instead. “What about me do you find attractive?”

Petyr stared at her. Her face, and her hair, tracing the curve of her jaw before settling on her lips. Then her chest, her breasts and nipples (that were impatiently waiting for more). Trailing down her stomach, hips, finding plenty to admire between her thighs. And back up, resting his gaze on hers with the hunger of a man who’d only dreamt of touching a woman, watching in awe the dream come to life. 

He peeled her hand from where it rested on her thigh, pulling himself up enough to kiss each finger tip. “How long do I have?”

She fought against the creeping smile tugging at her lips. What the romantic he was… Sansa spied the clock sitting askew on the nightstand. “Until my parents get home, I suppose.” Which could be now, or an hour. A recent skill she learned was tidying up her room and herself in minutes to the obliviousness of her parents. 

He would help, too, unless there was an incriminating trail leading up to her bedroom (which there usually was. Sometimes Sansa forgot they made it to her bed until after the wave of pleasure flowed out from her body, to the surprise of soft sheets and a warm body beside her). Petyr worked to clear up that mess in record time.

“Then there’s no time to lose.”

Petyr tugged her hand, catching Sansa by the shoulder before capturing her lips with his. His lips were warm and soft and familiar. How many times have they kissed now? A hundred, at least. Nowhere near a thousand, but there were plenty of days yet to reach it. Surpass it. 

He shifted his body along hers until Sansa felt the swell of his cock resting against her thigh. The evidence of his own need (for her) had her hips moving on their own. 

Eventually, Petyr pulled his mouth away enough to ask, “Is it cheating to say  _ everything _ ?”

Sansa considered it a moment. There were more important things to do right now, like urge this man to stop teasing her and give her what her body needed. But asking for it would only hinder it. Petyr was relentless when he knew Sansa was on the edge. So with the thoughts that still remained in working capacity, she answered with, “Right now? No.”

Because there would be time enough for Petyr to list out - quite thoroughly - each single thing he found attractive about her. Gods knew he would manage to make it  _ embarrassing _ , too. 

“Good,” Petyr replied, before shifting his waist so the length of his cock rested against her cunt. Sansa gasped. “But, I think I’ll start that list off right  _ here _ .”

With one thrust, Sansa forgot propriety with a sharp “ _ Fuck. _ ”

Petyr forewent kisses for the sound of her swears and sighs. He loved him (maybe that was number two on this list of Things Petyr Baelish Found Attractive of Sansa Stark. If not two, then it was up there). With each thrust, his mouth kissed down her neck, her chest, until he wrapped around one breast. His hands held her body against him, and Sansa tangled her own fingers in his hair.

Everything would have been so much easier had that hair she grabbed onto was devoid of grey. And the man beneath her was five or ten years younger. And if he wasn’t, among other things, related to her.

But gods strike her down if Petyr being older didn’t mean he knew exactly how to fuck her until she could pray nothing but his name.


End file.
